


Seaside Improvisation

by TheShinyRedApple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Married John Watson, One Shot, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 03:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16189175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShinyRedApple/pseuds/TheShinyRedApple
Summary: "I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don’twant them, so I take them backand put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists"





	Seaside Improvisation

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Seaside Improvisation by Richard Silken.
> 
> Inspired by Wee Small Hours of the Morning by Frank Sinatra.
> 
> -
> 
> Unbetaed so forgive me if there are any grammatical errors. English isn't my first language. 
> 
> This is my first fic ever so I'm sorry if its trash.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night. Under the blanket of silence, when Sherlock's thoughts whirled too fast and the world seemed sluggish and too bright. Sherlock would imagine John's hand in his. Nothing more. Just his small, strong hand holding Sherlock's.  
holding him like he was something precious and delicate, as if any part of Sherlock could be precious but His John, in the dark of the night thought him precious, irreplaceable.. unbroken.

 

It hurt but Sherlock somehow expected it. When his eyes would feel like they were on fire and would slowly slip shut, he could almost feel a phantom of a touch... Of the warmth he'd experienced when he'd been so fortunate to hold them. Those were one of his most prized memories.

 

He'd felt them two houses down the street on which the Woman lived. He'd felt their power. _Avoiding the nose and teeth,_ she had said. Did he do that on purpose?

 

He remembered every moment. John's hand in his, racing through the streets, The street light glinting off the dull metal of their handcuffs, their hearts pumping, eyes bright with excitement and fear, with a promise of ... something. Something more.

 

John's hand was warm, almost swallowed up in his own larger, paler one. Sherlock had memorized the callouses on his fingers. He'd consoled himself that night desperately believing that when he was back he'd hold John's hand all night. Memorize them, his small digits. He'd sleep with them stroking his hair. Holding him delicately.

 

He felt them when he came back, around his neck, curled into a powerful fist, shaking with rage and betrayal. He had felt it but he was in too much pain to memorize them. He regrets that.

 

He'd felt them in the morgue... He closed his eyes when he thought of that memory. It hurt. So Sherlock quickly dissolved it into another.

 

He got to hold John's precious hands once more. On the tarmac. With the cold wind in his hair and John's hard gaze on him, he could not focus on anything else except his imminent death and John's blue blue eyes. He wondered if they would be bluer when they were wet with tears. He wondered if John would cry if he was gone... Again. At least he'd have someone to hold him this time, soften the blow.

 

Sherlock, late at night, would sometimes envy Mary's hands. Her soft, short fingers intertwined with John's... Perfect. He envied them when he looked at his own long, pale fingers. Even though They had held power, a sword, a gun, a life. But Mary's hand had held John's, had worn his ring, a ring of thin inconsequential metal that bound them together in a way Sherlock never could. and Sherlock has never envied something more.

 

But in the wee small hours of the morning, when the world is fast asleep... He almost feels John's hand in his. And clutches it tightly. Always so afraid to let go, to wake up. He let's himself beg in that moment. That one moment in the silence of the early morning... He begs to hold the hand of the man he has loved... For years with the entirety of his broken heart. With every morsel of his soul. And in that moment Sherlock has him. For a split second. His earnest prayers translate into a brilliant moment of delusion, the delusion that he is loved.. the lie that he is being touched with love and reverence.

-


End file.
